New Book Release

I originally thought I would write my second book in about 6 months. I didn’t anticipate that any sort of life outside of the normal would transpire. But life does this every time. You have a timetable in your head, a plan, a vision, a schedule. And what happens? Along the way, in pursuit of what you want, you blow out a tire, you fall in love, you break your toe, you lose a friend. This is life, and we should never expect such a smooth uninterrupted life. But we do.

So, my book took just under two years to finish. You can blame a whole bevy of things, but I am the only real suspect. As a writer you sometimes think you cannot write in a certain state, be it sadness, distraction, ennui, or lethargy. You think that the words must come through a divine means, through some other-worldly revelation. But it is not so. They come when you sit down and write. Norman Mailer said, “Writer’s block is only a failure of the ego.” Normy was right. In fact, I have that quote inscribed with black ink on an ovoid piece of driftwood I found in northern California. But I also think the quote applies to more than just writing. The things we fail to do, the tasks we think we can’t accomplish usually have little real excuse attached to them. The failure is with us. Sometimes it’s with our ego and sometimes it’s with some other deep part of us. But it’s rarely so out of our control and grasp like we want to think it is.

My book is my new born child and I cannot wait to show it off like parents do with endless photographs and cute anecdotes. So though it is not as cute or cuddly or generally wonderful as an infant child, expect me to treat the new work as such.

Return Not Desired is available for purchase at Pioneer Book in Provo, UT, in various boxes in my room, and in paperback and e-book form on Amazon. Please go order it, and then let me know. I would love nothing more than to talk to you and sign your book. You can send me your copy and I will sign it. You can bring your copy to me and I will sign it. Or you can send me the money for a book and I will sign it and send it to wherever you are. Now remember most authors just sign their names. I can’t seem to sign a book without leaving some sort of personalized message, even if I don’t know you. I always loved yearbook week. It’s starting to make sense now.

Follow me on social media, and for goodness sake let me know what you think of my words.


Love, Tay



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Book Review: Gone with the Mind

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For the past few years I haven’t read a single book without reviewing that book on some internet platform, usually Goodreads. Sometimes it is just a few lines of approval. Most often it is a few paragraphs on how the book made me feel and the general relevance and gravitas of the words. And on the rare occasion a logorrhea of critiques and insults will ensue due to my disappointment or general chagrin.

I always appreciate good reviews on books I am interested in delving into, so I find it only fair and right to let the world know what I think about a book. Many books I cannot recall how I stumbled into their pages, but will forever be grateful for the stroke of serendipity. So if a descriptive sentence can steer a potential reader towards a tome that moves them at a time that they need to be so moved, then all will have been worthwhile.

I recently finished a book that was an absolute assault on the mind. It forced me to re-read lines, re-read whole pages, and look up words as if I was preparing a dissertation paper on a subject I knew nothing about. It was a book that was confusing and hard and annoying, but all the while it kept me curious and deeply interested. The book is called Gone with the Mind. The author’s name is Mark Leyner. I will explain more about the plot and theme of the book in a minute. First, how did I even come to know Mark Leyner exists? Honestly, I saw him on an interview with Charlie Rose, circa 1996. He seemed like a poorly dressed man who took himself way too seriously and wanted nothing more than for people to know how widely intelligent he was. Alas, he was there on the show being compared to one of my all-time favorite authors, David Foster Wallace. Both were labeled post-modernists. Both were known for their extremely large vocabularies. And both were known for writing difficult, hilarious, and wildly non-linear novels. So I thought, what the hell? I read up about Mr. Leyner and found the plot summaries of his books to be new and intriguing, and maybe even Wallace-esque. So, instead of reading his first book or his most famous opus I decided to read his recently released book with vague allusions to Gone with the Wind in the title.

I am not sure I followed this pseudo-autobiography as well as I would have liked to, but I know what I gathered and soaked up was lovely and viscerally enjoyable. The book has multiple narrators and basically is one intense and tangential monologue of a narcissistic paranoid author with mommy issues. But it isn’t some poorly veiled look into one man’s troubled and hyper-dramatized life, it’s a creative work of metafictionalized genius. Leyner meanders, jumps, and soars through the past, through his mind, and through the possibilities of life. If you allow the story, which is unusual and often frustratingly unclear, touch you you will find how much you can relate and how much life is wonderfully disconnected and boggled.

I’m sure many will find it uncouth or pedantic, but I found Gone with the Mind to be nothing short of a bizarre masterpiece.

If you care to know what else I have read or what I think about certain works, be sure to look me up on Goodreads.

And duh follow me on my instagrams- @taylorchurch44 and @taylorchurchbooks

These Weary Hands

David Foster Wallace once wrote,

“Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it.”

Though written in a work of fiction, knowing Wallace struggled with deep, paralyzing depression, and that he would go on to take his own life at age 46, these words hold a certain autobiographical sting to them.

As much as we think we understand suicide, who can know what one is truly going through before they “erase their own map,” a phrase Wallace repeatedly used to describe the self-elimination process. Who can understand the inner workings of a broken brain, a depleted and defeated soul, save it be one who has committed the act himself, and these are they who cannot speak out, for they are gone.

The above quote opens me up and makes me think about the things or people I’ve lost, things I’ve let go of, or things that have slipped out of my careless grip. Losing friends, losing my grandma, just barely missing the chance to fall in love, the near-misses of life—looking back, a lot of it hurts. It hurts to let go and it hurts to be let go, and still other times you don’t want to let go, but your hands are bleeding and can’t hold on for another second, even though thats all you want in the world in that moment. It’s like a poor mother that cannot feed her crying hungry children. It smashes her heart, but she just can’t do it. Sometimes we just can’t do it.

But what things have I left my claw marks on? I like to think I try my best and give it all with things I love, but when the colors start to fade and the screws come loose, and things start to fall apart and slip away, how fierce is my hold? How easily will I quit? Am I willing to scratch and claw to hold on, or is the pain, the wincing, the torn fingernails too much?

So I look at my hands. I know they’ve bled at times. I know they’ve been rough and smooth from both overuse and inaction.

And though I’ve never felt the cajoling demons of final and personal destruction, and the clouds above me have never been so black as to obscure all light and chance of hope, I’ve lost dear friends, martyrs to the darkness. And I know they left claw marks on life, but they just couldn’t hold on any longer, and that breaks my heart in new terrible ways. Some nights I can’t sleep thinking about them; not that their gone, but just that life hurt them so much.

So what can I do? I guess I can hold on a little longer and a little tighter. And when I can’t hold on to something, I damn well better leave lines of blood from my weary and broken fingers.



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Also, for the concerned and curious reader: My first book I’m Trying Here is available for purchase on Amazon and select bookstores. Signed copies can also be procured by contacting me any darn way you please. For my second book, Return Not Desired, see above avenues for attainment.

Saying Goodbye to An Old Friend

I don’t even remember meeting him. It seems we were just always friends, a sort of mystery of middle school boyhood. But our friendship was short-lived due to geography and the wavering vicissitudes of life.

He was a kid I looked up to immensely, so our friendship was forged and defined by that adulation I had for him, that endless charisma and that mysterious quality that makes someone truly likable. Marc had it.

We came from different worlds and didn’t spend much time outside of school together, besides a few parties and social events that seemed so important to thirteen year-olds.

But when he talked to me, he was there, but fully there, like an older brother. I still remember getting in trouble for “disruptiveness” in math class with him. But we didn’t care.

The school year ended and sadly I had no idea that I would never see my friend again. I knew we were headed to different high schools, but I didn’t know that that August my family would decide to move from Phoenix to a rural town in Central Utah.

I remember coming home from my 8th grade graduation with a strange pall of melancholy. I didn’t know for what reasons, but I knew life would never be quite the same and it saddened me.

Months later I was in Utah flipping through my yearbook reading the words of my old friends, friends I knew I might not see again. Most of the entries were as unimaginative and impersonal as they come, wishing me a fun summer and congratulating me on another school year gone by. But Marc’s words at the bottom of that glossy  “autograph page” were different.



Hey we’ve been through a lot. I don’t really know how to say bye. But next year show them Cortez monkeys how to bling-bling alright. I’ll never forget how funny you are. O.K. that’s enough sentimental shit. Hey keep it real and have a kick-ass summer.

M.D. Rappa’Lot (AKA Marc Dixon)


Fifteen years later Marc and I had talked very little, but we liked each other’s Facebook posts, exchanged numbers, and sent a few texts back and forth.

A couple years ago I noticed Marc had been diagnosed with cancer. It broke my heart, as I’m sure it did to countless others. I reached out to him, and never heard back. I figured he was sick and busy, and kept him in my prayers. His occasional posts were inspirational and made me want to fight harder for things in my own life, things I took for granted.

Then one unsuspecting Wednesday I got a Facebook message from a fellow classmate of Cholla Middle School, another person I hadn’t seen for nearly fifteen years. Georgia said,


“How are you doing? Been a while!”

“Hey I am doing great, thanks for asking. I know right? How are you?”

“Lost one of my closest friends, Marc Dixon. Been a rough year. He died hard and fast. But so painfully slow at the end. You knew him too I’m sure.”


I was taken aback being that I hadn’t heard anything about his passing. I knew he didn’t look great and his death was something that wasn’t far-fetched. But the moment I heard it, or rather read the news, my heart felt torn-up and deflated. Now I would most certainly never see him again.

Although death is inevitable and unspeakably terrible, it is part of life. To love is to lose. But I knew that I would see Marc in the next life. And I knew we would hug and weep for the lost time and smile at the eternities ahead of us.

Hundreds, probably thousands of people knew Marc better and loved him more than I could. But I’m thankful for him. I’m sad at the great loss, but I am a better man for having known him, and for having witnessed his fight.

“Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it.”

~David Foster Wallace

8th grade graduation. The last time I ever saw Marc.




Keep Going Eastward

We left early, but early for us just meant sometime before lunch. We stopped at 711 to get snacks and fuel. The teller had a curious tattoo with the words “love and hope” or something similarly and vaguely inspirational. I asked her what it said as I paid for my watermelon juice and generic blueberry sour candy. She quickly and without reservation pulled her shirt over and down to reveal the whole art piece and a significant amount of clavicle. “It’s itchy” she said.

We drove fifteen or twenty minutes until we saw a large formation of rocks in the shape of a heart on the side of East 6 Highway. We crossed the 4-lane highway to get a closer look. Brady, Drew, and Mandi walked ahead of me. Brady noticed down a dry ravine a little sign in rusted metal that had a few lines and a funny silhouette of some cowboy boots. It read, ‘Learn This Well…The last ride is never the last ride, and the end is not the end.” At the bottom it said “In memory of Heather and Brad.” As odd and unexpected as this 3-foot epitaph was, it moved me, made me smile, and made me miss my Grandma.

We climbed back up to the road and jogged towards the heart. The heart was placed against a hill, and made visible by brightly painted stones, three crosses at the heart’s apex, and red dirt in the center. We just stopped for a minute and appreciated it. Then someone noticed one of the rocks had slipped a few yards down, lying by our feet. It was orange and heavy. I decided it needed to go back. I climbed up towards the top of the heart in my Birkenstocks, removed part of a tumbleweed and reunited the rock with its vibrant neighbors. We hustled back to the car while Mandi lagged behind muttering something about a dead rabbit she saw.


With dirty shoes we got back in the car and headed East not knowing for certain what we would see or what we even wanted to see.

Our next stop was in Fairview to procure some sort of local lunch. But first we wanted to survey the town, so we drove down the main street and followed a sign pointing towards a museum of art and history.

We spilled out of the car, stretching and grunting before meandering around the outside of the museum where rusty old pioneer artifacts sat dying and forgotten. A few of the doors were boarded up and we saw old boxes with artificial snow sitting around scattered trash. Assuming the museum was closed or abandoned we looped around back to the car, only to find that the main entrance was open, summoning us in.

A short woman in her seventies greeted us with the enthusiasm of a young golden retriever. She had on high-watered white pants and a shirt with the phrase “Ladies night, 2014” written across the chest. Her name was Terry and it was obvious that she lived for this. It was clear that city youths didn’t enter often, and we soon received the top-shelf tour. Terry’s excitement for an otherwise dusty and kitsch display was invigorating and contagious. She encouraged us to ring a bell upstairs, prefacing the instruction with “I shouldn’t tell you this, but…”

She tarried (pun intended) behind us to the adjoining building reserved for trinkets and a small dino-skeletal display. We wandered around discussing lunch. Terry could be heard bragging to her co-workers of equal age and even less flattering clothing choices how four college students came in and “saw everything!” Her moody retired-in-Florida-type colleagues kind of nodded as if to say “Here goes Terry again telling one of her wild tales.”

I gave T a hug and told her how grateful we were. We exchanged phone numbers and promised to keep in touch.

We lunched at TeeCee’s, a small burger shop that used to also accommodate video rental services. The refills were not free, but we enjoyed the small town burgers before heading out again to the great road.

In search of ghost towns, land art and adventure we stopped in a tiny town with a reservoir and a lot of green roofs. We followed our Google Maps toward the dirt road that would take us to an old mining town, since abandoned. But a half mile later we met with large gates and No Trespassing signs. Knowing the nature of isolated farmers, that were within eyeshot, we decided not to risk the trespassing citation.

Chagrined by our luck, we jumped back into the car. My eyes got heavy and my body felt spent from a night of little sleep. So I rested my head into my left hand in a way that eliminates a little bit of tiredness, but eventually leaves your hand numb and your wrist sore.

Thirty or forty minutes later we arrived in another small town in a different county. Here, we explored for hours, eventually finding the road that led to a very accessible ghost town called Spring Canyon, an old coal mining town. Only a few buildings remained, ravaged by decades of neglect and local vandalism. They were barely buildings. But one still held metal containers, large, elevated, vat-like containers full of coal that had no doubt been there since before my Father was born.

We took pictures inside by the profane graffiti and mechanical structures. We ventured around outside on porous escarpments, taking in vistas and hurling rocks downward into other bigger rocks. Mandi kept saying, “These aren’t the richest rocks I’ve ever seen, but they sure are the porous.” Puns followed us the rest of the day.

The sun was starting to droop, so we left in order to see our main destination that was still a good sixty miles away. In the perfect time of twilight we arrived in Green River, Utah. We parked in a dirt lot, crossed the tracks and beheld the great work of art on the desert floor.

It was a massive pyramid-like structure built by a visionary artist in 1973. It was called Ratio. A couple hundred feet away was the accompanying piece called Elements. The land art wasn’t exactly breath-taking or life-changing. But it was beautiful, and someone made it. And sitting there in the cool wind as the sun merged with the horizon, you could feel a certain divinity in it all.

The sun fell and we needed victuals. We decided on Tamarisk, a restaurant that sat on the banks of the Green River. We didn’t look into its prices or menu, it looked romantic enough for us.

We ate soggy fries and delicious entrees, tipped well, then left the eatery near closing time. Walking to the car we noticed the motel next door had a pool and hot tub with an unlocked gate. No one had a change of clothes but we contemplated swimming any way. We settled on sitting with our feet in the hot tub, listening to folk music and rehashing the greatness that was the day.

We all were quiet for a while, so satisfied with our day that little else could be said. It was like when an athlete has an amazing performance, and instead of celebrating wildly, calmly walks off the field with a smile and a full heart.


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If you find that you like my words and want to read an entire book by me, contact me for a copy of I’m Trying Here or be patient for the summer release of my next book, Return Not Desired.

Contact me in one of the following forms:

Instagram- @taylorchurch44, or @taylorchurchbooks


Little scraps of wisdom

My poor Father’s birthday falls on the day before your taxes are due. This is like having your birthday as a child be the day before your huge science project is due each year in school. It’s not catastrophic, but it’s a bit annoying. What isn’t annoying is having a Dad you think of as more of a friend than anything else, a friend that brought you into the world, and essentially taught you everything you know.

Italian novelist Umberto Eco said, “I believe that what we become depends on what our fathers teach us at odd moments, when they aren’t trying to teach us. We are formed by little scraps of wisdom.”

Mr. Eco has managed to describe a small portion of the role my Father has played in my life much better than I ever could. Here are just a few examples of those odd moments and scraps of wisdom.

I remember in the heat of Phoenix summers my Dad narrating as he drove. He knew that my sister would soon be 16, and I would follow a few years after. He would explain why he was yielding, or why other drivers were so unfit for traffic. He would use his horn in an almost graceful and pedagogical way.

Even to this day my Dad will pause a movie or TV show we are watching to explain a certain actor’s pedigree, or a certain director’s lack of creativity. Growing up this never felt like a lecture on cinematography, or an annoying adult projecting on those less educated. It was sharing. It was knowledge. It was togetherness for us.

I remember hugging my Dad after my final high school basketball game. I was crying cause we lost, and cause I knew it was over forever and unlikely that I would play at the next level like I had dreamed about for so long. He knew no words could really console me at that moment. But his eyes told me that he got it, and that he loved me. And his timely silence meant everything to me, cause it was proud silence.

One high school afternoon my Dad came home from work and called me out to meet him in the driveway like something was the matter. I ran out, and he just said “Hurry, come listen.” There was a Pink Floyd song on Serius Radio that he didn’t want me to miss. Probably without outwardly trying to, my Dad taught me about passion, taught me how to love lots of things and find beauty in art and the small things around me.

Ultimately, along with my Mom my Dad taught me something so simple but so missed by so many people. In her memoir, Patti Smith preaches the same wisdom,  “To be an artist was to see what others could not.”

Love you Pap.




A Break from Prose

I think a lot of people have at some point in their life written poetry. Maybe they were short rhyming couplets they composed for an English class, or perhaps they jotted down some haiku one night camping after everyone had fallen asleep and the embers crackled in the dark. Some people have secret notebooks with scattered thoughts they have compiled over the years with little order or apparent beauty. Expressing ourselves with words is such a powerful thing, but sometimes it only comes in a burst. This, for me at least, is often when poetry is birthed. I’ve rarely shared my poetry with anyone; not because I’m ashamed or embarrassed of my work, but mostly because they are often deeply personal, and I don’t really think of myself as a poet, though I’ve written many and rather love writing them. So maybe it is time to share a few.


Be it forever?

Even on the blue shores of Alaska

I think of her

Alone in the cold, with wild memories near

Her heart moves on in the wilderness

Mine stays put in the city

Beneath the golden sky and under the endless night

We stare at the same sun

We hope on the same moon

A vast lake separates us

Be it forever?

Grandpa Howdy

The tears are fleeting, the fathers speaking

In remembrance we sit, fighting feelings

Our eyes swollen, our hearts too sad

Saying bye to a grandpa, a friend, a dad.


The moon seemed eternally shy and devastatingly bright

As it peaked its forehead over the mountain peaks just to my right

It was a sight that stuck with me

A beauty indelible and awesome

Reminding me of the scared yet indestructible light within ourselves

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A Rose in The Winter

I learned a new word today. Apparently the extra day that is added to the Julian calendar every four years is called a bissextus. It sounds kinda sexy, but to me it is just a cool reminder that we are blessed with an extra day this year. But the idea of having just one more day makes me think of something sad, something I am still dealing with but often push out of my mind because it still hurts–the passing of my grandma. It’s been almost two months now. She was old and I’m glad she isn’t suffering anymore. But I miss her. I miss how invested she was in simply asking about my life. I miss the smell of her kitchen, and seeing how happy she was when the whole family was there laughing and eating her food. I miss how she made me feel like my life was supremely important. I have no doubt that I will see her again in the next life, but it still hurts. I hate that she won’t be at my wedding, and I hate that she will never hold my children. But thus is life. We have to accept death and look back on lost life as a gift and a small glimmer of beauty and perfection that we can recall and smile about when life gets even tougher.

About six months ago my grandparents gave my parents their old green van, and I have driven it from time to time while my own car recuperates from its various ailments. A few weeks ago after grabbing a quick sandwich before work I hopped into the van, threw my backpack on the ground and was hit with a gust of wind from the past. The smell of the van entered my nostrils and immediately surged to my brain reminding me of my grandma. It’s weird how smells can transport you back to the most specific places of your childhood in a fleeting instant. I sat there, breathed in and cried a little. I haven’t cried much since the funeral. I guess I have just changed the subject in my mind when it came up. But that smell, that whiff of the past was too much.

Another instance hit me unexpectedly several days ago. I was visiting my tiny four-pound niece in the NICU when a very real moment crept up on me. I was saying goodbye to little Evelyn, kissing her tiny cheeks as she lay supine in her small hospital crib, listening to me as only an infant could. I started to talk to her. It’s funny how adults talk to newborns. We know they can’t understand us in any way, but we still tell them how precious they are to us, and how much we love them. Maybe it is just assuring to hear those words aloud. Or maybe we just feel that some portion of our love will be received or heard.

I said, “Evie, I love you, but I gotta go home now.” I kissed her soft little head one more time then said, “You met grandma up there, didn’t you?” I don’t know where this came from or if she did or didn’t meet my grandma before coming down early, but I started to cry looking at that tiny human and feeling the closeness between her and heaven, and took my slipping emotional state as a cue to excuse myself. I waved goodbye to my sister in a hurry, leaving before she could see my tears. Because like some people vomit upon seeing vomit, my sister cries on sight of tears. I scuttled out into the hallway and rubbed my eyes quickly, not wanting to break down in front of orderlies and nurses as I made my way to the parking lot.

I guess these little moments seem sad, but really it’s a beautiful thing to remember someone you love. James M. Barrie said, “God gave us memories so that we might have roses in December.” And even though sometimes it hurts so bad, I’m thankful to have those roses.

With any death that is close to you you are reminded of the fragility of life. I think about those last days in the hospital with my grandma, and I wish I could have just one more day with her. The truth is we don’t know how many days left we will have with anyone. And though a leap year doesn’t really extend my life any further, it reminds me how much can be done in one day, and how grateful I should be for each sunrise and each sunset. Be it a boring Wednesday in the dead of winter, or a sunny bissextus, let us not take for granted a single day.


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A cute update of my life and upcoming book release

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As 2015 passed into the annals of time to become another place only visited through memories and recollections I decided I wanted to write more. I wanted to post articles and blog posts several times a week. Now, it’s 43 days into the annus novus and I am making my first blog post of 2016.

I have been in a tailspin of sorts. My grandma who I kind of assumed would live forever passed away after a long battle in the hospital. Then mere days after, my sister’s water broke at 27 weeks. She didn’t go into labor for a few more weeks, but these were terrifying weeks of waiting and worry. Finally a tiny person was born, not even three pounds of human life. So I have spent my time driving an hour to the hospital and spending time with my little niece that lives in an incubator fighting to grow. All the while I am working full-time, trying to get a girl to hang out with me twice, and trying to finish my second book that has gotten the best of me over the past 6 months.

The other day in the middle of a cold dark night I typed the final sentence of my book, Return Not Desired. Iv’e been working on this piece of personal non-fiction for over a year now. I’ts crazy the things you feel when you finish writing a book. It feels a bit joyous, but also rather sad. Truman Capote said that, “Finishing a book is just like you took a child out in the back yard and shot it.” Though I find this to be a bit dramatic, I see what he means. Now what? Now I have to concern myself with the tedium of editing, revising, and of course publishing. I just want to write everyday and leave that literary minutia to others. But I am not that cool or famous yet. Yet.

This was my attempt to update. In summation, I have been busy and finally finished my precious manuscript. The editing process is fully underway thanks to some very talented people I have entrusted. Now as soon as my baby is polished and receives its final coat of proofing varnish the publishing process will proceed. This is where potential delays might occur resulting in my infuriation and subsequent frustration in realizing that infuriation isn’t a word.

The goal is to obtain an agent and publish with a major press as soon as possible. But I will not deprive the world of my book for very long. A self-published version will be released as soon as possible. I plan to have a book release party where copies will be available of my first book and the newly completed Return Not Desired: Thoughts on The Holocaust and Life. Stay tuned for announcements and updates on this blog and my other social media outlets.

Insta- @taylorchurch44     @taylorchurchbooks

Electronic mail-






Let Go

There are things that I keep buried in some deep capsule within my soul. These are dark things, things I should release out into the endless atmosphere to fade away and explode, but no, I stubbornly hold on. In my mind and heart are stored unnecessary parts of me that for some reason I feel the need to grasp to. It’s like someone places a tong-held coal into my hands and though it burns and hurts I won’t let go because I want to prove something. But I don’t even know what that something is.

We all have this hidden box of things we want to keep. Some people’s boxes hold intense envy and jealous emotions. Others hold secrets that refuse to be told, some embarrassing vices and sin. And some aren’t even boxes, they are something much deeper and more difficult to open, they are steel vaults full of regret and unmended hearts. For some, deep within their emotional vaults lay the remnants of an old relationship, a wound that won’t fully heal because they refuse to suture the cut.

No matter what it is, be it addictions, hate, or even just a hopeless hope, we all have things we need to let go of to have a better and happier life. It might seem impossible to empty our entire box of issues, or crack open our vault to let a few things out, but we can and we must. Perhaps we will never fully let go of everything, for life throws so much at us, but if we can work toward an existence where we are always trying to empty that injurious capsule that we have buried inside us, surely our load will be lighter, and our life fuller.

Maybe we have an old friend that did something absolutely unconscionable. How could we ever forgive them? What we don’t realize is that we aren’t simply carrying out justice for their wrongdoing, we are harboring poison within our own bodies if we do not let go, if we do not forgive and move on.

Maybe an old lover has left us, years later, with a damaged heart and a complete lack of hope for the future. Maybe the love was too great to be duplicated let alone topped. But this is only true if we cannot let go. If we set free the past, our future regains its limitless potential.

Maybe we have a certain predilection for something that only brings sadness unto ourselves and others. Maybe it’s an addiction to anti-depressants,  maybe it’s a volcanic lack of devotion and loyalty, maybe it’s unbridled selfishness. And as all addictions, habits, and forms of life are, it is hard to change and easy to say, “That’s just how I am.” But a simple decision to let go, as trite as it sounds can boomerang good things back into your life.

So let go. Look deep into the portion of you that you try to forget about, grab your demons by the neck, unchain them, and let them go.


“I realize there’s something incredibly honest about trees in winter, how theyr’e experts at letting things go.

~Jeffrey McDaniel

let go

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